Under Scrutiny
by CasusFere
Summary: Vortex is accused of murder, and for once, he didn't do it. Pre-Earth. Warnings: death, violence, gore, torture, and cheerful contemplations of all of the preceding. And paint. In sum, Vortex.
1. Contemplating Paint

A/N - Set pre-Earth. Warnings: Non-explicit death, violence, gore, torture, and cheerful contemplations of all of the preceding. And paint. In sum, Vortex.

* * *

It's too bad automatic doors can't bang. Onslaught would probably find it more satisfying, the _crash_ and _thump _ jolting his poor unsuspecting victim out of their thoughts, which are undoubtedly filled with all sorts of nasty guilty things, lurking just beneath the surface. Or not, in this particular instance. I'm actually thinking about paint, so ha, take that, Ons.

But since automatic doors only _swoosh,_ and don't _crash_ unless Brawl accidentally drives through them – again - Onslaught will have to settle for angry foot stomping and ominous looming-over-people.

He's actually really good at it, by the way.

"What the frag did you do, Vortex?"

I roll slightly, until my rotors hit the wall and stop me. Naughty rotors, who told them they could do that? "You'll have to be more specific, Ons. I do lots of things." _Only some of which you'll ever hear about, _I add mentally.

Oh, Onslaught is _furious_. Not just foot-stompy-walk pissed, vibrating-with-rage pissed.

Huh. I can't _remember_ doing anything particularly especially infuriating recently. Unless he... nah, that was ages ago. I'm pretty sure evidence woulda turned up ages ago if that was the case. They have to drain the smelters more often than once every ten vorns or so, don't they? If there was anything to find, they woulda found it. So it can't be that.

Onslaught's hands are twitching like they want to grab a rotor and twist it off.

Always entertaining, that, if a tad amateur.

_Focus, Tex_, I remind myself_. Stop daydreaming_. Frag, even my mental voice was starting to sound like Onslaught. Obviously, this means I need to get out more. Geez, I haven't even done anything to deserve bein' yelled at recently, and that's just sad.

"Don't fragging play dumb, Vortex!"

Huh. Two swears in two sentences. He's _really_ pissed off. Someone-ruined-the-plan-because -they-weren't-listening-during-briefing pissed. Which is high on the Onslaught Anger Scale, for any voices-in-my-head who weren't paying attention last time.

"Malignin' of my mental acumen aside, I ain't playin,' Ons. This time, at least." Probably shouldn't provoke the angry missile truck, but it's just so funny how his much-vaunted – no, really, he's vaunting it all over the place, it'd be annoying if I wasn't so easily amused – vocabulary devolves when he gets mad. Accent sneaks in, too.

Funny, ain't it, that we both affect accents to change how people listen to us. Difference being – well, two differences, really – that a, I actually come from where it sounds like I come from, and b, he's doing it to sound more... cultured... so people will pay attention to him when he decides to expound on his latest _amazing_ tactical... thingy. Me, I do it for the ironic dissonance between what people think of "education" and "intelligence" don't exactly mix none - see what I did there? - with backstreet Kaon drawl and syntax. They hear a little broken grammar, and suddenly can't wrap their pitiful little processors around the idea that I might be smarter than them.

I said I was easily amused, didn't I?

Easily distracted, too. Onslaught had started talking again, and I missed it.

Not like it's hard, I just have this auto-tune-out thing with Onslaught. I think it's the accent. All smooth and regular and lull a mech right into a snooze...

_Focusss_, Vortex, focus.

I tilt my head, curious. "... Did you just say somethin' about a body?"

For a moment, I think he's going to hit me. That's alright, I really don't mind it when he does.

But he calms himself. Aw. "Yes." His words are clipped, as he gets his temper back on the tight rein he keeps it on. "A body. In pieces. _Lots_ of pieces."

Oo, that's more interesting. To me, that is. Not sure why it's so important to Ons, though.

So I ask him.

If he clenches his fists any harder, he's going to pop a servo.

"Because it's a Decepticon body."

"Aaaand?" Seriously, that can't be it. I've killed plenty of Decepticons. Heh, _he's_ killed plenty of Decepticons. Usually publicly, where as most of mine are still officially missing, but hey. Same principle.

"And it's _not supposed to be dead!_"

Oh, sudden volume increase. That's probably not good. For someone.

Probably me, judging by Onslaught's posture.

Why wear a battlemask if you're just going to telegraph everything anyway-

...Apparently he really wants me to pay attention. He's got his hand wrapped around my shoulder-plate, and by around, I mean his fingers are _under_ the plate, wrenching and hauling me off my nice comfy berth.

Y'know, I don't think shaking me is gonna make this work better, Ons.

"I'm _sick_ of cleaning up after you, Vortex! I'm not your fragging maid-"

"Ons," I start, twisting my head to look at him, despite the rather inconvenient hand in the way.

"I will not tolerate you allowing your... proclivities... to affect the operation of this unit-"

"Ons..." I punctuate it this time with a kick in the midsection he doesn't seem to notice.

He gives me another, harder shake to shut me up. Onslaught's really strong, have I mentioned that? Makes me feel like I've got wires loose for a second.

"You will give me a straight answer Vortex, or I will-"

"_Onslaught!_" I palm a blade, a small disposable one, and stick it through the plating of his forearm for emphasis, and get thrown back into the wall for my trouble. Pretty sure that was reflex on his part. Woulda hurt more if he meant to do it, and he woudn't have let go. I swear, the guy gets in a bashing-people-into-the-wall rut if you let him get started.

"Like I was sayin'," I tell him primly, catching my balance again and brushing imaginary dirt off. "It ain't my body, it ain't my mess, ergo, it ain't my problem."

His fingers twitch again. Sometimes I think it's my grammar that gets him so wound up, rather than my quote, "disrespect," end quote. Must be annoying; he probably worked for vorns to get his perfect dictation down. Wonder what he'd do if I told him that I know he's faking it?

"Did you or did you not kill someone last night?" he demands.

Hey, he was finally listening. Kinda. He's still ticked; ain't acknowledging the little trickle of fluid running down his arm at all. "Nope. Not a single dead body from yours truly."

He doesn't seem satisfied. "Did you cause anyone's death? Or serious bodily harm? Or any kind of harm, major or minor, for that matter?"

Yeah, I know, it's all repetitious and exhausting of him, but he's learning. The problem with having subordinates smarter than you is that there's these things called _loopholes._ So Ons has gotten rather careful to go into extreme detail as to what he's asking we did, what he's telling us to do, and most especially what we're _not_ supposed to be doing.

This would probably work better if I listened to what he was saying more often.

"Nope," I tell him cheerfully. "I'm horrified that you would think such things of me, really." And I am - "any kind of harm," really? I only go in for two types. Grievous bodily harm, and.. well, grievous psychological harm. He shoulda figured that one out by now.

Unless I'm the harm_ee_ instead of the harm_er. _I admit I've been known to sample the full spectrum from that side of the table. But that's neither here nor there, since last night was actually rather boring.

"Was here all night," I add when Ons give me that look like he's going to get in that smash-people-into-walls rut again. "Me, a cube, and a datapad full of reports about Beastbox's interrogations. Hilarious stuff, really. Wanna see?"

Onslaught doesn't look interested in watching the reports. His loss. He glares at me for a while longer – for effect, I think, but really he should know better by now – then turns and stalks out, looking nearly as angry as when he came in.

Me, I grin behind my battlemask. Forget Beastbox, this has my curiosity piqued.


	2. Matter at Foot

Warnings: Non-explicit death, violence, gore, torture, and cheerful contemplations of all of the preceding, and now adding general morbid creepiness. In sum, Vortex.

* * *

Sometimes I make it a point to act smug at random moments. Never fails to get some amusing times as everyone tries to figure out what I know - or what I did - before everyone else. After all, knowing things I'm not supposed to know is kinda my job - which makes it an oxymoron, since obviously I'm supposed to do my job, but the job I'm supposed to do is something I'm not supposed to...

Frying logic centers, also a great bonus of my job.

Back to the topic at hand. Er, foot in this case, the guy is everywhere. Literally stepping on bits of him here. Gooey, too. Onslaught demanded that if I didn't kill the guy, I better get my aft up here and tell him who did. Except, you know, in Onslaught-speak, which is pretty much the same thing as normal talking but with as many syllables as possible.

So here I am, in the middle of... y'know, I have no idea what this room is for. Nice and out of the way, though. Mental note, find out if there are any more of whatever-these-are. Could come in handy. No table, but several chairs. And monitors-

Onslaught seems to want my attention again. Gee, Ons, you could just try saying my name like a normal person - rotary assemblies aren't handles, and that was practically a come-on.

Apparently he didn't appreciate the smug act. Well, _I_ did, and it was getting a great reaction from that guy over by the monitors. No, the one _next_ to the guy who looks like he's going to purge his tanks.

Fine, fine, I'm looking. Sheesh.

"Yup, he's dead," I inform them cheerfully. "So... what're you wantin' me to be lookin' at?"

"Dead from what?" Onslaught grinds out. Oh, his temper's rising again. Funny.

"Pieces," I say, tilting my head to check out the ceiling. Wow, he really did get everywhere. "He's in them," I clarified for the benefit of the two new guys.

"This may astound you, Vortex, but I'm quite capable of seeing that," Onslaught growls.

Multiple syllable words, this is a good sign for the wellbeing of the two other guys. Onslaught has these itty-bitty temper problems, as everyone shoulda noticed by now, and sometimes he goes off on the funniest people. Like the kind that aren't immediately required for the current situation, i.e., not me. It's too bad. That'd be amusing.

"Coulda been fluid loss that did the actual killing," I add. "Coolant drop, systems overheat, breaks somethin'. Of course, that'd mean whoever did all this was chopping on a dead body, which is kinda a lot of work." I rotate my head to give the new guys a cheery look. "I know. I've done it. Complete pain. Of course, so's cuttin' up a live one, but at least that's fun work."

"Can you illuminate anything that I couldn't get from a half-trained tech?" Onslaught demands. Pushy, pushy.

But it's so much fun to make you work for it. Oh, fine. "Probably died from system shock." I go back to contemplating the ceiling. "His pumps were definitely fully functional when they started to cut him apart. Awake, too, I'd bet."

"No one heard anything-" Tank-Purger starts to protest.

"Like they wouldn't have dampened his vocalizer," I scoff. "C'mon, really? Alright, I admit, personally I prefer _not_ dampening, but it's super-easy to do, and if you're gonna take someone apart mid-base, it's the most obvious thing ever."

"Alright," Onslaught says. His hands are unclenching. One thing nice about Ons, he does accept other people knowin' their own fields better'n him. "Why do you say he was awake?"

I point at a particularly long streak of coolant decorating the wall and trailing across the ceiling. "Because that's more force than a normal coolant pump gives. Which means his systems was reactin' to the stress, pumpin' more coolant to counter risin' internal temperatures." Cranky Newbie looks like he's going to demand to know how I know that. Really, don't these guys read the basic repair manuals? Alright, so I never did, but I'm smarter 'n them. "Because he was strugglin' to free himself, more power to the engine, means more fuel, means more heat, means more coolant pressure, means better splatter pattern." I wiggle my rotors at Cranky. "Pretty, ain't it?"

You'd think, being Decepticons, that they'd be used to this sorta thing by now. Admittedly, this one's a bit more... exuberant... than most dead bodies the average Decepticon sees, but y'know, same principle. No need to make gaggin' noises.

Except...gotta admit, it's really _really _exuberant. Definitely not the first time, definitely not a quick job. I'd bet that it wasn't a revenge killing. They're talking about the dead guy, who he hung out with, but I'm not really listening. This guy's done this before. And I'll bet he didn't care who he was doin' it to. It ain't about the victim, it's about the screams, the fluid running down your hands, the panic in their optics when they realize you aren't going to stop, the way they twitch and shudder at the very last, that final choked gurgle...

I pick up a slice of rotor cuff, turning it over in my fingers. Not the cleanest cut, but clean enough to require a heavy-duty, sharp blade with some serious power behind it. Not the kind that most Decepticons carry, designed to punch into armor and rip up the wiring on the inside. Would have to be designed for cutting armor, slicing it, really. But not clean enough for a laser-scalpel. Purpose-built, I think.

"Interestin'," I murmur out loud. Onslaught spares me a glance, but doesn't interrupt Tank-Purger goin' on about whatever.

It suddenly occurs to me why Ons is still involved in this. I figured that he was just angry because he thought I did it without his express, in-triplicate, three-months-in-advance permission, but he's still here. Huh. Curiouser and curiouser.

"So, base commander on your aft?" I ask when Onslaught turns back to me.

Onslaught turns a sharp look at the two flunkies and they scram. "The base commander believes that _you_ are the perpetrator," he says once they're gone.

"Shockingly enough, I'd already guessed that." I fan my rotors at him. "What with the burstin' in and draggin' me up here by my rotors, y'know."

He looks unamused. Normal for him, really. The mech needs to invest in a personality upgrade. Humor add-on pack, maybe.

"The base commander believes that you are the perpetrator," he repeats, with exaggerated patience. First sign he's losing his, tip for anyone who cares about that sort of thing. "Present tense. He is not interested in your alibi, and as such, if we can't find the real killer, it's going to be you facing the Mayhems."

"Yep, that's what I was guessin'." He's givin' me a look like I should be takin' this more seriously or somethin'. What the frag good would that do? Same outcome my way, but only _I_ get to have fun. "Why'd you care? You ain't on the firin' line for this." And it ain't like the mech's exactly fond of me or anything. Always got the impression from Ons here that he tended to think of me as some sort of proof that someone in Command had it out for him. Heh. Like that requires _proof. _Fact: Command hates everyone.

"You are my subordinate. Any infraction that you are found guilty of reflects on my perceived abilities as a team leader-" he starts, every word deliberate.

The mech's a horrible liar.

"Pfft, sure."

He glares at me. Also on the list of things Ons don't like – being called on his bluffs.

"Ain't gonna be more than a minor footnote in your file, and you know it," I tell him cheerfully. "Base commander ain't worth slag in the long run. And Shockwave ain't gonna care a bit between you takin' out a loose cannon under your command and you hunting down the real killer on someone else's."

His fingers twitch. "Do not tempt me to do both for good measure," he growled.

But I'm not intimidated. It's an interesting question that I'll have to pursue later. I kinda wonder if Ons ain't doin' this out of some strange, twisted sense of loyalty. His command, his responsibility – some mechs think that means more than just keepin' the subordinates under control. Some of them seem to think that they got some sorta weird obligation to protect 'em, too.

Note to self, look into this more. Knowin' that might come in real handy someday.


	3. Night on the Town

Also to add to the list of things that irritate Onslaught: offering amusing-yet-unhelpful suggestions when he thinks the atmosphere should stay appropriately serious and grim.

My face hurts. And when I poke at the side of my battlemask, it wiggles a bit. Ons has a really fast left hook for bein' such a big guy.

Someone's temper's a little touchy right now. Kinda funny, that. It's not like it's _his_ tailplane in jeopardy. Either he's being super-sensitive about his reputation like he claims, or he's seriously tryin' to protect me.

It'd be funny if it wasn't so weird.

And weird or not, could end up handy – provided he doesn't rip my CPU out first, anyway.

"How 'bout everyone gets a repaint and pretends to be the guy for a couple days." I can't help one more teensy little suggestion. "See if the guy was so incensed by his clashin' paint job that he had to redecorate a room with him."

"_Vortex!" _

Yup, that's the keep-talking-and-I'll-remove-your-fuel-pump-by-pounding-it-out-of-your-chest look.

Y'know, this ain't a half-bad way of spendin' a shift. 'Least, I haven't had to haul anything anywhere or sit and stare at a computer and do nothin' for hours.

Onslaught's glarin' at me again. Telegraph, telegraph, telegraph. Heh. Why does he even bother wearin' that battlemask? Okay, sure, it provides a _little_ protection in the field, but if that was the only reason to wear it, you'd think he'd take it off the rest of the time, 'cause he certainly ain't usin' it properly to be for the normal reasons.

Okay, sure, I generally don't take mine off, either, but that should be obvious why. It's actually helpful to _my_ job. Creates more perception of detachment – for the other guy, not me. I don't need it, trust me. I'm plenty detached from the situation with or without it. But it makes it harder for other people to read me, y'know? Leaves me free to produce whatever kinda perception I want with my body language and voice. Ons, though, he don't deal with people the way I do, and the only time he fakes his body language is when he's actin' all proper with his superiors.

Yeah, I know, he really is all that stiff-strutted by-the-book commander garbage that he looks like most the time. Until he gets annoyed, then it's _still_ written all over him. So really, what's the point?

Oh, being shook again. Gonna have to get Ons a wall poster or somethin' to demonstrate other ways of getting people's attention that don't involve grabbin' them by the rotor assembly and heavin' them around. Make sure it's got lots a big words and looks important, so he'll actually read it.

"Yes, Onslaught? Did you have something you would like to express to my ever-attentive audio receptors?" I ask sweetly, carefully enunciating every word.

"I believe that should be '_Never_-attentive,' Vortex," he tells me. "I want you to investigate the possibility of previous incidents, as you have so astutely suggested that this mech has perpetrated other, similar crimes."

See? And this is why I usually just summarize Ons-speak. "...How'm I supposed to do that?" I ask, modulating my tone into a nice gratin' whine. Ons _hates_ it when I whine. I generally make it a point to do it at least once a day, just for him.

It's good practice for him, havin' to control his temper in the face of minor annoyances. It's like exposure therapy. He, of course, is never properly grateful for my havin' generously donated my time and vocalizer to the greater Decepticon cause.

"I have the utmost faith that you will find a way," he tells me. His tone says _do it or else._

Frag it, this sounds like _work._ And not the fun kind.

x-x-x

Command likes to claim that this entire sector's under Decepticon control. Ain't really true. Sure, we got patrols rumblin' down the street at all hours of the day and night, got jets screamin' in and out of the base, even a few choppers like myself buzzin' around willy-nilly. It's like the Great Purple Presence out on the thoroughfares. Anyone without the Decepticon brand tends to stay to the side of the street, head down and walking as fast as they can without catchin' anyone's attention.

All very normal, very controlled, very... fake. Or, if it ain't fake, it's like a think coatin' of paint on a rusted out wreck. Scrape a bit in the right spot, and you can find where the whole thing's rusted through.

And I never can help but poke at the rust spots, y'know?

It ain't like some of those stories you can pick up off a naive little Autobot, y'know, those cute little stories about self-important idiots playin' anti-hero, turning a corner off the main street and suddenly findin' themselves in a whole 'nother world, filled with slinkin' mechs hidin' their faction symbols and makin' back-alley deals in actual back alleys.

Cute, like I said. Such a romantic, typical Autobot sorta thing to think. Ain't like that at all. Oh, sure, there's back alleys and lurkin' mechs, but they ain't there to sell you blackmarket high-grade. Drain yours, sure. But they got dealers they sell to who funnel it up to the uptown bars.

Betcha ain't gonna look at a cube of high-grade the same again.

The real underbelly of the city's right there with the rest of it. Take where I'm goin', for example. It's got an official name above the door that I ain't botherin' to read or remember. Mechs hereabouts just call it Photon's. Photon ain't the owner or anything, but he's the artist that people come here t'see, at least in theory. Some sorta light-painting, manipulating wavelengths and slag like that. It's pretty, but ain't my thing, y'know?

Anyway, the place acts like his gallery. It's trendy, with variable lighting dependin' on what Photon's been up to, usually pretty brightly lit, but the light-paintings are bright enough to be better for privacy than any gloomy barroom. Place's got a white-noise thing under the floor, supposedly to keep the conversations of others from distractin' the viewer from the paintings, but mostly used to prevent eavesdropping.

And like I said, it's trendy, which means all sorts of people come there, and ain't no one who looks out of place as long as you ain't covered in internal fluids or rust. No one blinks an optic at a hulkin' 'Con frontliner cozying up to a spindly neutral. Art brings all types together – or for those of us who have the slightest idea what's up, we just assume he's tradin' for new under-the-table weapon upgrades with a blackmarket smuggler.

Me, I'm here for somethin' similar, but it's information I'm tradin' for, not weaponry. I meander my way through a flickering display, lightin' up my paint for a moment. I sidle around a pair of seekers lookin' entirely too serious for the situation, and wish I could take the time to find out what exactly was so important. But I gotta job to do, so I go past them to the mech mannin' the energon dispenser.

As hot as this place is, you'd think it'd serve a decent cube of high-grade, but it don't. Apparently it ain't done to have your senses dulled by high-grade or additives when you're appreciating Photon's 'genius'. Of course, there's plenty of high-grade available, and Taplock here'll even point you straight at them if you ask him nice.

I always ask nice.

Taplock nods to me, but doesn't greet me by name. It's considered a courtesy around here. Kinda pointless if you ask me, since a few breems and a few credits can get you anyone's name and place of manufacture in here. "Business or pleasure?" he asks instead.

"Can't it be both?" I respond, sliding closer. "I got some great comedy video if you wanna take a break and come sit with me." I waft my rotors at him flirtatiously. "We can snuggle up with a good cube of high-grade and call it a night."

As always, Taplock looks mildly annoyed at the come-on. "I'd rather not."

"Come on, it's hilarious stuff. Picked up a vorn's worth of reports from Beastbox," I tell him happily. "Full-length interrogation recordings, even. At one point, he starts hitting this one Autobot, and the little twirp goes 'Stop! I'll tell you-' and _wham_, Beastbox punches out his vocalizer mid-sentence. Funniest thing _ever._"

For some reason, Taplock isn't laughing as hard as I am. Go figure.

"Can I get something for you?" he asks, impatient.

"Gotta speak to Epi," I say cheerfully. Not like I was expecting him to take me up on my offer anyway. His loss. Beastbox should get billed as a comedian, really.

"He hates it when you call him that," Taplock tells me, same as always.

I waggle my rotors jauntily. "Yup. He in?"

Taplock hands me a cube, not answering. Which, if you know the routine, is an answer.

Epicenter is the owner of this little shiny piece of real estate. Ain't too much money in the place itself, but he's built it up over the stellar cycles to the best source of whatever you want in the sector. I think that's the real reason he don't offer more refined fuel here, too much effort to slip it past the blockades. Epicenter's an information broker, and the whole place is just a means to get people who know things and people who want to know things in range of his little information net.

He's good. Expensive, though. Most mechs 'round these parts can't exactly afford to talk to the guy. They can either scramble to find enough hard goods to pay him off, or trade in information, but it can be slaggin' hard to find out something he don't already know. He likes to have dirt on everyone, and codes to everywhere, but likelihood is, he already knows all your security passcodes. And as a general rule, he don't work for credit. Most of the time, if he does, you're in for a world of hurt, 'cause the favors he demands in return ain't nice.

Most of time, I say, because there's a few of us that get away with it. We're in the same field, y'see, information, so we work out a sorta system for swappin' interesting tidbits we come across. And every once in a while, I do him a favor, and spend a little time after hours procuring something specific from someone specific. As long as the bodies don't turn up, no one looks too closely into what interrogators do with our spare time.

Unfortunately, I got a body turnin' up, and the aggravating part is that I ain't got nothin' to do with it. Fortunately, I got a bit of credit built up with Epi here.

It'll take Epi a bit to show up, so I take over a seat, leanin' back against the table and watching the crowd move. The position ain't particularly comfortable for rotors, but it's a minor discomfort, not exactly unpleasant. Kinda like scratchin' an itch until the paint comes off. Burns a bit, but nice.

Looks like I ain't the only one crowd watchin' tonight. There's a group of Winged Wonders seated next to one of the nearest displays, and a couple of them are lookin' straight at me.

I don't need to look closer to figure out what kind _they_ are. I can see their paint from here. Pink and gray, little sheltered twits who ain't seen enough real combat and think it's edgy to paint up like corpses or like they've been splattered with fresh energon. Feh. The only ones impressed by their little dress-up game is other posers, or soldiers lookin' for easy game that'll be impressed by a little talk of fighting. The leader of their little cadre's had a heavy re-tooling done on the wings, makin' them upswept and sharply angled. Got a fancy pipin' job done, a glowin' energon-pink lit up against glossy gray.

New builds, or neutrals who wanna think of themselves as spookier than the 'Cons. 'Spect I'll find out which real fast, since they've spotted my own dead-gray look and think they've ran into low-rent one of their kind that they can flash their wings at and impress.

Ain't they gonna be surprised.

See, my paint ain't done like this to impress barfly wannabe seekers. It's just a tool, like the battlemask, like the rest, gets the right unconscious reaction from my... clients. A deep-rooted sense of horror, too vague to name and conquer. The little newbies trying lurk around, all artistically grim, they don't understand that. They don't use it. They just wear it because it makes them feel like they're big bad scary mechs.

I'm more than a little tempted to show a couple of them exactly what "scary" means. And maybe see how much that bright pink one likes _real_ energon runnin' down her face. It's gonna have to wait a bit, though. Epi always gets so uptight 'bout hydraulic fluid on his floor.

Speaking of, there's the little slagger now.

Epicenter really ain't much to look at. Ain't never seen his alt, but he certainly looks like a stationary piece o' communications equipment. Table's too high for him, and when he climbs into a chair, he's actually gotta hop up to get into the seat. Looks pretty harmless, and that's the point. Ain't no one gonna feel threatened by him until he goes and pulls out enough blackmail to set the entire sector on your exhaust trail.

"Do you have something for me?" he asks, resting his hands on the table.

I turn in my chair just enough to keep him from bein' directly behind me, but keep watchin' the crowd. Epicenter ain't gonna do anything personally, but I still don't like people at my rotors. "Nope. Buying, ain't sellin' today."

Epicenter's antenna twitch in interest. I don't doubt that he's got a list of things that people like me are askin' for sale to somebody. Autobots, most likely. Price of doin' business, y'know?

"I'm lookin' at a body that showed up in the base this mornin'," I tell him. "And I need to know where and when the others were."

I don't need to explain what body. He probably knew about it before I did. "You believe there were others?" he asked. "Where would you like me to begin the query?"

"Everywhere. Most likely not on bases, but back-alley dumps. Mayhem's woulda been all over it if it'd been happening on other bases, too. Probably a few 'Cons before this ones, certainly neutrals and 'Bots."

"A broad-range search," Epicenter notes, a leadin' comment if I ever heard one.

I flick a rotor. "What, gettin' corrosion on your circuits? Can't handle it anymore?" I ask.

"Of course I can handle it, and seeing as you are such a valued customer, I suppose you're worth the extra effort it will take," Epicenter says smoothly. "I will notify you when I have your information." He slides back out of the chair and disappears into the crowd.

I snort , fans blowing exhaust. 'Valued customer' my aft. Epicenter does nothing outta the goodness of his spark. But I ain't too scared of him screwin' me over; ain't too many mechs feedin' him the kinda information I can. It's a narrow specialty field.

The little knot of angst-filled wingers is still giving me those conspicuous sideways looks, all so obsessed with their studied uniqueness, just like all the others I've ran into over the years, none of them aware that somebody could turn 'em all into _real _corpses and no one would care. Maybe I'll see about a bit of diversion before I have to get back to work tracking down alternate information sources. Always collaborate everything.

After all, I don't actually _trust_ Epicenter.


	4. A Sense of Impending Danger

It never ceases to amaze me how some people just don't seem to have any sense of impendin' danger. Take this little jetling, for example. So wrapped up in her own self importance it never occurred to her that the person followin' her home might be somethin' other than an admirer. Oh, I'll do some admirin' alright, admirin' her insides as she sags into a pool of her own fluids, her vocalizer glitchin' from screaming.

She's startin' to get the idea, whimperin' and trying to get loose. Try all you want, little jet, but better mechs 'n you have tried to get out of my bindings and failed.

Sheesh, Onslaught's pingin' my locator again. 'Bout the tenth time tonight. Mech's keepin' an abnormally close watch on me - Guess he don't want there to be any question of my whereabouts if another body turns up. A mild annoyance. I considered turning the locator off, just to see his reaction, but contrary to base rumor, I ain't suicidal and I can think ahead. And I don't want taken apart by the Mayhems, so I gotta put up with the distraction.

Anyway, to get back to what I'm doin' - days like this, I love my altmode. Sure, I'm outclassed in the speed department by pretty much any non-rotory mech, but you just can't beat a chopper for under-belly hauling. Incredibly handy for the days when you just gotta haul a trussed-up victim to a killsite.

I've got a blade millimeters from an optic when the sound of engines startles me, and I pull back, turning. Ground vehicle, heavy engine, tires, not treads. Whoever it is stops outside, pauses a moment, then transforms.

My new friend takes my hesitation as a sign that she has a chance for a rescue, and starts screaming. "Help! Please, HELP ME!"

Annoyed, I stick the blade in her throat and sever her vocalizer.

The screaming trinket taken care of for the moment, I pull my gun. It gets laughed at from time to time, my glue gun, but no one ever laughs twice. It's extraordinarily handy for someone in my line of work, actin' as a weapon, restraint, and tool all in one. I consider it my duty to show those that laugh first-hand just how handy it is. Lets me turn interruptions into future entertainment prospects, too.

A shadow falls over the entrance, but the ground-crawler doesn't present a target. Huh. Smart one. "Vortex," booms a familiar voice.

I groan out loud. "Ons! What the frag are you doin' here?"

Onslaught's probably the strangest mech I've ever served under. Not that he's complicated or particularly _unusually _insane, but his motivations ain't always what a Decepticon would call normal. Most of the time I ain't got a problem predictin' him, but sometimes he surprises me. Like now.

"I need to discuss the situation with you," he says, stepping inside and looking around. He spots my guest and frowns. Well, I can't exactly _see_ him frownin', but he makes that little head movement that says he is. Like I said before, mech telegraphs _everything._

I motion back at the bound and bleeding jet. "Kinda busy, but I can schedule you in for sometime later tonight," I say, keeping my voice light and cheerful.

"No," Onslaught says, voice flat. "You're coming with me right now."

"I'm on a date," I tell him, crossing my arms stubbornly.

"I noticed." There's dry, then there's Onslaught's makes-arid-planets-seem-oceanic, "Talking to Vortex" voice. "Get rid of it."

Any other commander, and I'd fire this glue gun I still got pointed at him, and there'd be a mysterious unsolved disappearance on the base. But it's Onslaught, so I just grumble and put the gun away.

I do it because, despite all my grousin' about Onslaught's being such a killjoy, he's a fraggin' good commander. He puts a sorta trust in us on his team that I ain't ever had directed towards me by anyone else who'd seen the leftovers of my job duties. He knows what I can do, and he plans what he's gonna do if I were to turn on him, but on some level, he trusts me to do my job and do it well, and he gives me the freedom to do so. He's the only commander I've ever served under who lets me decide how to do the job, and does his best to get me the tools I need to do so, and doesn't punish me for tellin' him when something can't be done. Respect, that's it. The mech respects me as an interrogator and a subordinate.

And so I obey him, for the most part. More than anyone else I've ever served under, and he knows it. So he puts up with my insubordination and my deliberately annoyin' him, and in return, I let him order me off a kill. He's the only commander I'd obey on that particular order, and I think he gets off on knowin' that.

A quick slash with the blade and energon's spillin' over the floor. The jet slumps in her bindings. So unsatisfactory, frag it.

Ain't no one going to care enough about a dead neutral to investigate - provided the scavengers hereabouts don't strip her body for parts. We leave the body there, still bound in place, the last of the fluids tripping into the puddle beneath her.

I follow him outside, rotors twitching sulkily. "There a point to this, or was that just an exercise?"

Onslaught gives me one of his inscrutable looks. "The Mayhem arrived on base."

My rotors lift slightly, a deliberate motion of perked interest. Onslaught doesn't need to know that the thought worries me. It's not so much that I'm afraid of them - of the things I'm afraid of, there ain't a single mech on the list - it's more of a sense that I've been set up and the trap's comin' together nicely. "Fast," is all I say.

"He's been in the city on other business," Onslaught says. There's a tension in his shoulders, in the way his head moves all of a sudden. "Apparently he and the base commander are old acquaintances."

And we'll add that to the list of "Signs that you've been set up."

A thought follows hard on that one as we transform and head back towards base; sounds like when this is all over the base commander might just end up bein' the victim of another mysterious, unsolved disappearance.


	5. Like a Blade Through the Pump

Sometimes I wonder what it's like for everyone else. Y'know, people like the Autobots, or even some of the other Decepticons, those _normal_ people. People who actually feel "bad" if they were to walk up behind their berthmate and shove a blade into his primary fuel pump. Honestly, I don't even know what that feels like. The "bad" part, not the blade-in-the-pump part, because I've had that happen. Done it, too, to the same person.

...Long story.

Anyway, most of the time, I really couldn't care less about it; it ain't a virtue, no matter what the wishy-washy people afflicted by it say. Guess they gotta make themselves feel better about the giant target they're paintin' or somethin' like that. But sometimes I wonder.

I ain't ever felt anything of the sort. Not because somethin' went wrong in the programmin', but because they didn't put it in there on purpose. Got blocks set up to prevent any sorta personality shifts from tendin' in that direction, all part of the package they booted me up with. And it ain't anything new since Megatron went and took over, either. People like me, we been around a long time. "Peacetime?" "Golden Age?" Ha! I was built durin' the so-called "Golden Age" and lemme tell you, they didn't give me this programmin' as part of a peace plan. I'm doin' the same work for Megatron that I was doin' for the mechs in charge back then.

People like me, we can't be gettin' distracted by things like sympathy or affection. Things like that interfere with my job, if you get my drift. Can't feel empathy, can't "fall in love" - and fraggin' don't want to! Slag, havin' an outsider perspective on _that_ one makes me grateful for the blocks. I can't feel it, and I don't even know what it feels _like_ despite my havin' in-depth conversations with some prisoners on the subject.

And I don't know if it's deliberate or just a side effect of the programmin', but I ain't ever been afraid like these people get, either. See, I can get nervous or worried - sometimes you just get a feelin' that everything's gonna fall apart and ruin all your hard work, but not what other people call terrified. The hardest thing I had to learn back when I was a new-build was how to use a mech's fear against 'em - it just never made sense to me how people'd do things outta nothin' but fear. Took a lot of trial and error to work that one out. I know that most mechs have this intimate dread of pain, but I ain't ever figured out why. Dead handy, though.

Anyway, what all this has to do with the situation at hand -

I'm pretty sure that I'm supposed to be scared right now. There's a bit of worry goin' on, wonderin' how far this little conspiracy I'm bein' set up by goes, but there ain't no use in squallin' about it. Ons is all nervous himself, actin' even more military and precise than normal.

What's botherin' me, though, is what a big deal everyone's makin' out of this. It ain't like it's exactly unusual for bodies to show up around bases. Sure, this one's placed inconveniently, and was a bit enthusiastically killed, but ain't all this worry a bit overboard? This Mayhem showed fast enough that either he just didn't have anything better to do - which I find unlikely, considerin' the types they push for in the Mayhems - or somebody pulled some strings to get 'em out here. That's a dangerous kinda currency to be cashin' in if you don't have a personal stake in the matter.

So why does the base commander want me to go down for this?

"Ons," I say, pulling up to hover in mid-air. I can just make out the skyline of the base from here. "I ain't goin' back to the base."

Onslaught hits his brakes, rolling to a stop a bit further on. "Explain," he growled. It's probably a sign of how tense he is that he doesn't even bother to correct my usin' that nickname he hates.

"If I go back, I'm dead," I tell him. Sheesh, sometimes it's like talkin' to a newbuild with these people. "So I ain't goin' back."

"If you don't return to base with me," Onslaught starts off in that overly-patient voice he uses when he thinks I'm bein' deliberately obtuse, "They will take it as an admission of guilt and you will be hunted down as a deserter."

"Ain't desertin'. But somethin' occurred to me, and I can't figure this out from inside a cell. Or inside a smeltin' pit, which is more likely and you know it."

He sits quietly on his wheels for a long moment, thinkin' it over. If he doesn't bring me back, the Mayhem could decide he's in on it and be perfectly justified in takin' him out - not that Mayhems need justification or that Ons would be easy for him to "take out." But still, it's a sign of what kinda mech Onslaught is that he even considers lettin' me go.

"Be quick about it," he says finally. Then he pulls back out onto the road and heads for base, leavin' me hoverin' there alone.

Y'know, if I could feel personal affection, I mighta right now. Like I said, the mech's the handiest commander I've ever had.

The sucker.


	6. Wait, What?

And so our hero stood tall, silhouetted against the rising moon, the light of the city below reflected in a thousand glittering colors across his polished armor-

Pfft. I can't even finish that line without laughing. Where do the Autobots come up with this slag? At least, I hope it's an Autobot, because any Decepticon who writes slag like that should be shot as an embarrassment to the faction. That's one databook I can toss in the closet with the body of the guy who I'd picked it up off of. There's a wet sorta clang as it lands, but I'm already out on the balcony.

It's a good spot for lurking; with the lights off behind me, my flat gray will blend into the building, makin' it hard for any of those below to see me crouched up here. A nice apartment for my purposes, really, halfway up the building with a handy aerial escape route, comm access and an occupant who won't be missed by anyone important. Or anyone, probably. The quarters are cramped and filthy, more rust than paint on the walls, but it'll do as a temporary stoppin' point, until I can sort out this mess.

Got an informant comin' to meet me, and if he's headin' in from where I think, he'll haveta pass right under me to get to the meetin' place. Guess "informant" Ain't a good word. "Idiot" would work better. Once upon a time, I killed someone who had it in for him. For totally unrelated reasons, but I never saw any point in explaining that to him, and consequently, he seems to think he "owes" me. Or maybe he thinks that me doin' so created some sorta bond where I ain't gonna introduce him to his fuel pump. Like I said, idiot.

But a handy one today. Considerin' the situation at hand, I can't exactly just run back to the base and get the info I need, since if Onslaught's got any processor speed at all - and he does got a bit, all cracks about his intelligence aside - he'll be disownin' me soon as that Mayhem starts lookin' for me. Then it'll be AWOL time, and that ain't a good thing to walk back into base to.

Yeah, that's personal experience talkin'. No, I wasn't the AWOL one - but I _was_ the one who swapped his duty shift and leave time around in the base mainframe soon as he rattled his way out the front gate. Didn't like the fragger much, and the look on his face … heh. I hear that bein' AWOL's only a brig time offence over at the Autobot bases, but round here, it'll buy you a dose of plasma injection by way of plasma _e_jector.

All of which means, I ain't headin' back to base until this is sorted out, ergo, I need someone like Stall. Which explains why I'm lurkin' around up here waitin' on the worthless little dune dunebuggy. I doubt he's dumb enough to try to cross me, but like I keep sayin', it ain't hard to outwit the fragger. Electronic surveillance is beat by jammers, but good old fashioned tailin' ain't, so that's what I'm up here for. When he goes cruisin' under me, I'll be in a good position to tell if anyone's followin', on the street or in the air. And looky there, here he comes.

Let him get a bit down the street from me, but ain't no one comin' around the corner after him, or changin' trajectories in the air to keep him in sight. Either no one realized where he was goin', or no one remembers how much of a little sycophant he is. Whichever it is, I can't help but feel insulted a bit. This is a whole knew level of underestimatin' me. And sure, that's handy as frag, but it's still insultin'.

I was actually half-hopin' someone would be tailin' him. They'd have a fraggin' sight more intel than Stall there, seein' as Stall ain't been on base since right about when I left. He tends to leave me messages askin' if there's anything I need him to pick up whenever he's out and on leave, and I got one of them a little while before Onslaught went and hauled me outta my movie night. And considerin' our association - and his inability to keep his mouth shut about it - and how he'd be off base, it'd take a pretty stupid slagger to not realize that I'd contact him. And whoever set me up's gotta have some real computin' power to pull it off.

I activate my comm and send Stall a new set of coordinates - I don't think the little idiot'll turn on me, but I ain't puttin' it past him, and I'm a bit too busy to get ambushed tonight.

Stall's lookin' nervous as I fly in, but he brightens up soon as I transform. He's a lousy actor, too. Don't know how he's still alive, really. My guess it's by scurrying around in the shadows of mechs bigger and stronger than him. Like me. He starts babblin' the moment I touch down.

"Got a job for you," I say, cuttin' him off.

"Sure, boss, whatever you need, just tell me and I'm there-"

I swear, either he gets more annoyin' every time or I just get a mental block on how irritating he is between meetings. One of these days I'm gonna forget how handy he can be and turn him into a wall decoration.

"Need you to head back to base and check in on the Mayhem there," I tell him. "Find out whatever you can, got it?" Keep it simple, that's the ticket with idiots-

"Oh, Torsion? The big helicopter?"

Huh? How the _frag_ did he know that? He's been off base! Stall squeaks when I step forward to loom over him. "What do you know about him?" I demand.

Stall seems to be gettin' the idea that I'm not in a good mood. "Um, not much, not really at all, boss. I mean, I just saw him briefly-"

"Start with _where_ and then go on to _when._" I have to force my rotors to stop flexing. Frag it, this entire mess is throwing me off.

"On base, comin' out of the commander's office?" Stall fidgets. Can't blame him there. The likelihood of him makin' it through this encounter's steadily droppin'. I figured that I was gonna end up killin' him after he got that info anyway, but this is workin' out better. Talkin' to him made him a weak point in my defenses, and I can't have that. Sooner or later someone would remember about him. "It was um, the shift before I left, before I commed you," he finishes.

What the frag? The body didn't turn up till after Stall'd left base. How could the Mayhem already be on base, and talking to the commander?

"He's this big helicopter, one of them double-rotored types, y'know? But that's all I know, boss. Really."

Well, that was a dumb thing to say. Stall goes down with a short blade stuck through his central processor. I yank the blade out and dump the body down a warehouse waste recycle unit.

I need to talk to Epicenter again.


	7. In the Web

I make a few stops before I head back to Photon's. Like I said, Epi's the best, but I ain't trustin' him with my life. I got some other contacts that I drop in on and set on the trail of some info. Small timers, mostly, in different fields, but right now, there's some things I just gotta know.

Ain't been enough time for Epi to have picked up much on what I asked him, but I got a whole new set of questions now. Taplock gives me barely a glance before he hands me a cube and points me towards a table. He's not surprised to see me back so soon, and I'm not sure I like that.

I pick a different table, with a better view and more cover from the doors. Don't think Epicenter'd be happy about his place gettin' turned into a a bust, but I don't see any reason to trust the fragger. Life's just easier if you don't trust anyone.

"Vortex," Epicenter greets me as he climbs into the opposite seat. "I had not expected to see you for several shifts."

Well, ain't that a load of slag. "And why would that be?" I ask, keeping my tone dangerously sweet. "I just love Photon's work, can't keep myself away."

Epicenter smiles politely. "It is just that the information you requested is not complete."

"Really." I don't believe him for a astrosecond. He knows somethin'. He always does.

"And, of course, your commander logged you as on an extended mission not long after our last meeting. I am glad that you found time out to come see Photon's latest piece." He makes a gesture to one side, but his optics are focused on me, watching for my reaction.

I'm determined to disappoint him. "It's stunning." Like him, my gaze stays focused on the mech across the table. My mind, however, is elsewhere. Extended mission? What the frag? Is Onslaught actually covering for me? The guy ain't stupid, and you'd have to be stupid to interfere with the Mayhems. The guy don't even particularly like me much.

"I have been hearing some rumors about you," Epicenter continues after a moment. "Would you like to shed some light on them?"

Fishing already, Epi? "That'd depend on the rumor." I wag a rotor. "Can't go ruining my mystique an' all."

"Of course," Epicenter agrees, too easily. Definitely fishing, then. "What can I do for you today, Vortex?"

Back to business. "I need everything you can dig up on the base commander, and his relationship with the Mayhem on base," I say.

Epicenter smiles again, as empty a gesture as always. "Everything is quite a bit, Vortex."

Bad choice of words, Vortex. "His postings, how well they correlate with the data I asked you for earlier. And how he knows Torsion."

Epicenter's antenna twitch at the name, and there's the faintest surprise in his expression before he hides it. "Anything else?" he asks, smooth as can be.

"Yeah," I say, frowning behind my mask. "You can find out what it is that the Mayhem was doin' in the city."

"That will take some effort," Epicenter says. "Mayhem mission files are classified."

I don't bother on commentin' on the obviousness of that one. "And you can also tell me what he was doin' on base when all this mess with the body came down."

Again, that flash of surprise. Was he startled to know that Torsion was there, or that I knew about it? The answer to that might be rather important to my continued state of functioning.

"I will find out your information, and contact you when I have something," Epicenter said, sliding out of his chair.

For once, I don't stick around to check out the crowd. All this is makin' me too nervous, and I ain't stickin' around to find out how justified my nervousness is.

Whether he meant to or not, Epi gave me one important piece of information. I ain't listed as AWOL yet, and Onslaught's coverin' for me. That could mean that the Mayhem just ain't come down on him yet, or he's actually stonewallin' him for whatever reason. The why of it, it bothers me. Normally, I ain't gonna get worked up over little things like that, but today I kinda got a deadline that'll literally become a _dead_ line if I don't figure it out fast enough.

The traps I left at the apartment are all still in place. They ain't the kind that hurt or disable a mech - that's one of those Autobot story slagpiles. Anyone worth their Intel designation's gonna tell you that the best kind of traps to leave in your base are the kind no one notices, sprung or otherwise. See, the point ain't to hurt anyone who wanders in - if you've got your hideaway hidden right, how're they gonna know to not break in? Ideally, the place looks like every other one around it, like this one. So the traps are little things, things that look perfectly normal to be there, but can't be put back just the way they were if someone _does_ sneak in and rummage around or try to lay an ambush. The little bottlecap that gets pushed by the cupboard door openin', the nearly-invisible filament wire just barely tucked in the top of the door to snap when it moves, that sorta thing. Mine are all still intact, but I give the whole place a sweep before sittin' down on the berth.

Frag, frag, frag. Double frag.

I hate waitin' for results. I can be patient when I need to be, in interrogations or durin' a standoff. But that ain't like this. That's a tinglin' anticipation, havin' to kill my rotor controls to stop 'em from movin', watchin' the tension build in the other mech. It changes, it's visible, it's y'know, _somethin'._ This, this is fraggin' nothing. Waitin' for word, can't talk to no one, can't watch no one for clues on what they're thinkin'. There's too many people who I don't know what they're up to, and I don't like that.

Even Onslaught, who was always like clockwork in his predictability, is workin' off a different script than me. What the frag is he up to? Epi'll turn on me if it shows up more profitable for him, which it will - I'm good at my job, but ain't no one that'll take on a Mayhem for little ol' me. I'm dancin' over a smelter here, if you'll pardon the expression, tryin' to get the info I need to figure this puzzle out before someone burns me.

I try readin' some of those reports I picked up before all this happened, but even watchin' Beastbox screw up interrogations ain't doin' it for me. So it's back to pacing. I fraggin' _hate_ waiting. 


	8. A Commitment

Six sources and more raw data than most Decepticons see in a vorn, that's what I get for sittin' around all shift. Processin' the data ain't the problem; I was built for this kinda thing. It's makin' it all make sense that's the problem.

Most of it, like I said, is simple dumps of massive amounts of hard data. Tallies and reports of 'Cons dead while off the battlefield, investigations, desertions that never turned up again. Mission reports from Mayhem attack squads, kill orders, everything. Epi's the only one of the bunch who analyses the data before he passes it over. I'm sure some people find it handy, and I guess I do, too, just not for the same reasons. Most of 'em like not havin' to think about well, anything, but people like me, we know that what people don't give you is usually more important than what they do.

I'm lookin' at a datapad with a listin' of Armistice's - that'd be our lovely local base commander, the fragger - former postings and dates, and a neat little list of of the locations and dates of the killings Epi tagged as bein' probably done by our serial killer friend. 'Bout half match up with the postin' list, and the others are in entire different districts. First glance clears the commander - 'cept I got reports on those outliers, and they ain't done by the same person, leavin' just those four as the likely victims, and Armistice as suspect number one. It'd explain a lot, y'know, about why he'd bring a Mayhem he knows in, why he'd be blamin' me.

Thing is, Epi'd know that. He'd have the reports, he shoulda caught this. And he'd know that I'd get them and find it out, which means he deliberately set it up to look like he was coverin' for the commander.

Add to that the victims he ain't mentioning that I already parsed outta the raw data the rest o' my sources sent, and I come up with some bad news. Epi's already sold me out, the little fragger. That ain't surprising; really, it'd be more surprising if he hadn't. It's how he sold me out is interestin', because this sorta hints he knows who it was. Dumb of him, really. That'd practically be an invite for me to go "ask" him for the info, handy informant or not. Sure, crawlin' through his security's a real slag pot, but luckily, I don't need to. I know who it was.

I mentioned those mission reports, right? Most of 'em ain't important, but a couple of 'em are, and they ain't from Epicenter. Like the one sayin' that Torsion wasn't in the city when that body was found, that he was trackin' a cell of Autobot spies a couple cities over. Timestamp's awful close to that meetin' he was havin' with the commander, too close. He wasn't in the city on a mission, and he wasn't supposed to be here at all.

I roll the slice of rotor cuff between my fingers, watchin' the clip of surveillance video one of my "friends" had dug up for me. He was big, makes two of me easy, a transverse chopper design. Lots of rotors, blades stickin' out of everywhere, and sharpened by the way they shine along the edges. Looks strong enough to cut straight through armor without needin' to resort to laser scalpels or energon blades or suchlike. And a Mayhem ain't got to worry about base security.

None of my contacts had been able to tell me exactly what was up between Torsion here and  
the commander, but I've been thinkin' about it all wrong, anyway. It ain't that Torsion's workin' for the boss, it's that our commander's doin' a favor for a Mayhem.

Frag it to the Pit. If it was the commander, I coulda maybe worked somethin' out with Torsion, got some evidence - or fabricated some - and make Armistice too much of an embarrassment to have around commandin' a base. Can't do that to a Mayhem. I'd have to go above Torsion's head, and I ain't got friends up that high. Ain't got enough on the guy to know who his enemies are, neither, and my one contact who would know is already workin' for him.

Takin' out Torsion wouldn't solve my problems, even if I could. I ain't exactly a front-liner here. Maybe I could frame the commander, but unless I can find a reason for him to switch scapegoats, he ain't gonna listen. Rippin' my head off would be easier for 'em. Maybe I could turn the commander on him usin' this info from Epi, but the same problem applies.

I'm floundering, lookin' for ideas, a way to get out of this, but I ain't comin' up with much. Runnin's occurred to me, but I ain't gonna get far without a lot more time to prep than I'm gonna get. Even if I find somethin' to convince either of them to not melt me down, I can't use it because I can't face either without some pretty fraggin' tough backup that can't be cowed by force or by rank-

It takes me a moment to realize that I've stopped midstep as it hits me. Frag it Vortex, for a genius, sometimes you're really slaggin' stupid. _Onslaught._ My gyros bleep at me about it bein' an unstable position, standin' there off-balance, and I sit down on the berth again, shovin' data crystals out of the way. Fragger's tough as they come, and he's already proven he ain't as scared as he should be about the Mayhems when he went and put me on a fake assignment. What I'm thinkin' of now's a mite bit more dangerous than that, but I'm sure I can spin this somehow.

Onslaught answers his comm calm as can be, and doesn't even ask what I want before agreein' to meet me. I don't know if that's a good sign or a bad sign, but I ain't got any other options, so we'll just have to wing it either way. I spend some time clearin' everything of me out of the apartment and stagin' the scene a bit. Whatever happens, I ain't gonna be comin' back here.

A couple o' breems, and I'm outta there, leavin' nothin' but an old murder scene that no one'll care about. Happens every day, and the police ain't what they were before the war. It gets that way when you try to arrest a few too many heavily-armed war machines in a district where their commanders think that locals make good target practice. 'Cons only care about dead 'Cons.

I don't bother with the tricks and checks I pulled on Stall - if Onslaught's gonna attack me, I ain't gonna have much of a fightin' chance, and he knows it, so he ain't gonna bother with an ambush. He might even tell me he's gonna do it; he's strange like that. Gives people a chance to surrender and ruins my fun all the time - of course, I ain't gonna surrender, I'll be runnin' like hot slag. And if there's someone followin' him that thinks they can ambush me _and_ him, they got a big surprise comin'. Ol' Onsies likes to pretend he's a gentlemech, but he's great fun to watch on a battlefield once he gets goin'.

"I assume you have ascertained the identity of the killer?" Onslaught says without any preamble as I land next to him.

"Hello to you, too, Ons," I say cheerfully, transforming.

He's telegraphing again, and this time it says "Get to the point or I'm going to backhand you." So cranky. I'm feeling better than I have since all this started, but since I kinda need Onslaught, I don't wanna irritate him too much, so I give in and answer him in the affirmative.

"And you have proof?"

"We-ell, not so much _proof_ as a "good indication towards," if you know what I mean," I tell him. He doesn't seem real happy about that answer, but y'know, neither am I.

"Who?" Onslaught doesn't seem in much of a mood for chit-chat tonight.

"You want the real answer, or the answer least likely to get me killed?" I ask, the slightest nervous twitch in my rotors. For all that I need Onslaught, there really ain't a guarantee that he won't turn on me here.

"Vortex," he growls. _There's_ that familiar engine rumble. I have a feeling that if I wasn't facing him full-on he'd have a hold of my rotor hub already.

I waft my rotors innocently at him, my processor busy trying - and failing - to come up with some brilliant last-minute alternative. Nothing. Frag. So I tell him, about the set up , the double-set up, and the real reason Torsion was here. Then I start to outline my hastily made plan to manipulate or force Armistice to turn on Torsion, but I barely get past "We go in there-" before he interrupts me.

"Why should I help you?"

Huh? There's an icy feeling in my struts, like my coolant's sprung a leak. Why'd Onslaught have to pick now to start actin' like a Decepticon? "C'mon, a favor for an old buddy," I wheedle. I'm good at wheedlin'.

Onslaught don't look nearly as impressed as I'd like.

"A big favor?" I try.

Onslaught stays quiet. I don't like this, not at all. I start thinkin' over exit vectors. Guess runnin' might be the only option left, even if it ain't a good one.

"C'mon, Ons..." I slide a half step back, watchin' both ends of the alleyway out of the corner of my optics.

"I will fish your aft out of this mess," Onslaught says finally, "And you're going to- listen to me, Vortex!" he barks as I relax a fraction. "If I help you now, I want the location of every body you dump, every scam you pull, access to every contact you make, and most of all, I _will_ have your obedience to _every_ order I give you. And as long as you serve me faithfully, I will protect you from Megatron himself if need be."

"I do whatcha tell me now." I'm whinin' now, I admit it.

"No, you do as much as suits you, and connive and manipulate your way out of the rest." Onslaught doesn't even waver. "I require your absolute commitment, Vortex, or nothing at all. _I_ will decide when you can... _play_... and when you behave. You will kill who I say, and _only_ who I say. I will know where the bodies are and every move you make. And you _will not lie to me._"

I feel dizzy. "That's... that's a lot to ask, y'know."

"That is the deal, Vortex." Onslaught's voice is implacable, and he's suddenly not so easy to read. "Obey me or take your chances alone." He turns sharply on his heel and stalks towards the entrance to the alleyway.

I can't do this-

I can't afford not to.

But what he's asking is enough to bury me a hundred times over - I'm not exactly innocent of 'Con-on-'Con murder here. I think that's the point. If I give him all that, any attempt to betray him would end up with me gettin' eaten alive by the Mayhems. Onslaught's probably my favorite commander, but I don't exactly trust him - but I got to.

"Wait!"

Onslaught pauses, turning slightly to look back at me over his shoulder. "Everything, Vortex. I know some of it already, and if I even _think_ you're leaving anything out, I will hand you to Torsion myself."

I fidget, rotors twitching. Can I do this? Do I have a choice?

Onslaught waits patiently.

"Alright," I say finally. "You got a deal." 


	9. A Conspiracy of Trust

Trust is a funny thing. Don't make a whole lotta sense, when you think about it. It's all about takin' for granted that you ain't gonna get stabbed in the back, even though it's to the other person's advantage. And that's... stupid.

Onslaught doesn't bother to even look at the data crystal I pass him, and I ain't sure that's a good thing. Onslaught ain't stupid, and I've got every reason to hold back information. Well, and a couple good reasons to to hand it all over, both of 'em named _Torsion_, but hey, what's life without a little risk? Really, I'm kinda insulted - I spent a lot of time last night preppin' that thing with everything Onslaught might suspect me of, and weedin' out the really good info I don't want him to know. Got the rest tucked away, just in case. But y'know, what Ons doesn't know... really will hurt him one day, but hey, that's the fun part, right?

"So we gonna do this?" I modulate my tone to a somethin' surly-like, appropriate to the info I supposedly just handed over. Don't get me wrong, that crystal might just get me shot if Onslaught hands it to the right people, but the _other_ crystal's the one that _would _get my shot by... well, most everybody. I push past Onslaught, matchin' body language to tone.

Aaand there he goes again with the rotor assembly-grabbin'. That's not a handle, really!

"Vortex," Onslaught says, in that low dangerous rumble he gets. He's holdin' a hand out.

I play dumb. ."What?" I whine back.

"The rest of it," Onslaught says flatly.

"That's everything!" I squirm a bit, for emphasis.

Ow. Not only is that not a handle, diggin' your fingers in ain't exactly healthy for my flyin' abilities, Ons. "Do you think I'm an idiot, Vortex?" he asks, voice still soft and dangerous. I swear I can feel my swashplates grinding together. It'd be hot if I wasn't so occupied with this whole not-getting-killed business.

"No-" I start, but Onsalught just goes right on.

"I believe I was very clear with my instructions. Was there any part of those instructions that you had any confusion regarding?"

Squirming isn't helping, - and wow, does Onslaught have some serious poundage in his grip. My rotors scrape against my shoulder as he bends the control rods. "Eh heh-"

"I had one stipulation for my protection, didn't I? Do you remember what it was?" I really don't like this quiet tone. It's makin' me nervous. "Obedience, Vortex," he says, voice holdin' all the gentleness that his hand lacked. "I expect your full effort with every order I give and honesty with every question I ask." His grip loosens, and he strokes the abused control rods. I can't help the whine that escapes my vocalizer, and I find myself leaning a bit into the touch. Hey, it's a kink.

"Now," Onslaught says, still soft. "Let's try that again. Do you have the information I asked for?"

I hand it over. Come to think of it, maybe I shoulda made three crystals - but a glance Onslaught's way, and I get the feeling that doin' that mighta been a bad idea.

Frag, this trustin' Onslaught thing's gonna take some work.

x-x-x

Gotta hand it to Onslaught, always a pleasure to watch the mech work. There we are, Armstice's office, and he's just as calm and polite as can be, tellin' the duty officer he's here to see the commander. The duty officer tries to tell him no, but he's talkin' to Ons's backplates, cuz Onslaught's pullin' the smoothest brush-off I ever did see, managin' to leave the duty officer standin' there, gapin' and flustered. I _gotta_ learn how to do that.

"-Not to be disturbed," Armistice is sayin' as I slip in after Onslaught.

"I'm afraid," Onslaught says, pausin' a moment and noddin' to me to lock the door, "That your orders are no longer my concern," he finishes, calm and serene as if he were reportin' on the number of spare datapads in storage.

"Mutiny, Onslaught?" Armistice's optic band brightens. "I had thought you were smarter than that."

I sidestep a bit, tryin' to get a better view of what he's doin' behind the desk. I can't see one of his hands, and the commander's a sneaky little fragger. Weapon or alarm? His head snaps around to follow me - least until Onslaught starts talkin' again.

"Command finds you to be cautious beyond the appropriate attitude of a Decepticon officer," he says, still standin' at that easy parade-rest he does. "They are... _displeased _with your performance these last few vorns."

Oh, _smooth. _Suggest this is a sanctioned execution, get him backin' himself in a corner, make him think twice about callin' for help if he thinks they might not be on his side, and get him to stop payin' attention to the grey helicopter sidlin' around to your shoulder.

"No," Armistice snaps. Ohhh, quick denial. Feelin' uncertain about it, Commander? "I've ran this base perfectly - and they wouldn't send the likes of _you_to deal with me," he says, all reasonable-like.

"Wouldn't they?" Onslaught counters, cool as ice.

Hey, cute little plasma pistol you're hidin' under the desk. Guess that assessment of you bein' an idiot wasn't quite right - you're even more stupid than I thought. Piddly little thing wouldn't do more'n make Onslaught mad.

And Armistice just keeps on arguing, completely oblivious to the idea that he's already fragged - and to the little tool I got tucked in my palm. The blade's a nice one, warm and familiar, and perfectly capable of stabbin' through a tank's armor, much less the _former _commander's.

"Vortex," Onslaught says, ignorin' Armistice. "Shut him up."

_Finally._ Armistice doesn't seem much inclined to take a knife to the laser core quietly - he grabs up the pistol and turns it on me - but I'm already lungin'. Not towards him, but back for the door and outta Onslaught's firin' line.

Armistice realizes the mistake before he even gets fully into firin' position - but that's rather too late. Onslaught's shot catches him square in the chest as he twists. Me, I prefer it when Onslaught gets all personal with his kills, but hey, a corpse is a corpse.

'Course, Armistice ain't quite a corpse yet. Onslaught's sidearm packs a wallop, but it ain't usually fatal. He seems to like prisoners - not that I'm complainin' about that one, mind you, and not that he ain't packin' a whole heap of lethal weaponry, not the least of which is his fists.

But that's all beside the point. Point is, Armistice may be bleedin' and twitchin' but he ain't dead yet. The blast threw him back and rattled him hard enough to blow all the little capillary lines, leavin' lubricant and suchlike seepin' outta his armor.

A quick slice - you didn't think I was gonna bring my favorite cuttin' knife and not use it, did you? - and his cortex is severed from his fuel systems, renderin' him effectively immobile as the pumps shut down. Another takes care of his vocalizer and a twist to snap the leads to his radio. Onslaught wants him alive. For now, he says.

Considerin' that my rotors still ain't straightenin' right, I ain't pushin' my luck and askin'.

The door chirps as someone tries to open it, due no doubt to the racket Ons's shiny gun makes. Hey, I said he was smooth, not quiet.

Onslaught don't seem to mind the poundin' of the mechs outside once they realize that the door ain't budgin'. He just kicks Armistice outta the way and rights the chair to sit down. Only one whose got an override who'll dare to use it is the Mayhem. Me, I agree, 'cept I think the only one who'll care enough is Torsion, but it amounts to the same thing. Sure enough, it all subsides fast enough. Voices for a bit, then just mutterin' - then a deep voice, demandin' to know what was goin' on.

Hey, Torsion, what took you so long?


	10. The End

Courage is one of those things that get underrated in the Decepticon army. Ask a soldier 'round here about a mech he admires, and they ain't likely to list courage in his virtues. Toughness, strength, speed, intelligence, cunning - and those last two are very different things, if you're taking notes, quiz at the end - and viciousness, can't forget that one. But guts gets written off more as stupidity than anything worth aspirin' to.

Autobots, now, they'll put it right up there with honesty and compassion - y'know, the other slag Decepticons claim not to care about. "Claim" because cut up any mech of any faction enough and suddenly they're all about compassion - namely mine. Long wait for a ship that ain't comin', but I'm gettin' side tracked again. The average Autobot don't know slag about courage. They all favor that whole group suicide - gettin' themselves killed to save a lost comrade. That's just stupid. Guy's lost, and congrats, ten of y'all gettin' killed retrievin' the body just means there's that many less to throw themselves in front of our guns.

So guts just gets seen as a weakness, and it creates a whole new type of weakness. See, the kinda courage I'm talkin' about isn't the kind that has you jumpin' in front of an assault team so your buddies can run, it's the kind that has a mech sittin' calmly at a desk and starin' down someone who's get every right to stick a blade in your head, and more'n a little motivation to do so. That takes a lot guts - or a sociopathic streak and a nasty sense of humor, but that's more of me and not so much Ons's thing. No sense of fun, honestly.

"Hello, Torsion," Onslaught says, just as smooth and calm as can be. His whole body language is just as cool as his voice. Gotta credit the mech with self-control, even if ya ain't about the gutsy angle.

Torsion pauses in the doorway for a microsecond before steppin' through - and leavin' a rotor blockin' the door from closin'. Wantin' witnesses, Mr. Big Bad Mayhem? That's interestin' - you ain't so sure of yourself now, are you?

"What is the meaning of this?" Torsion demands. Ohhh, deep an' gravely, just right to send shivers down my rotors.

Hey, I got a lotta kinks, alright?

Torsion glares down at Onslaught, tryin' to put the bass off balance with the whole authority-figure act, but I could tell him it ain't ever gonna work. Ons fuels on the whole I-am-in-charge routine.

"I believe we are apprehending a criminal," Ons returns, completely unruffled. And I mean it, too, got all these nifty sensor-interpretation programs for pickin' up those tricky tells in interrogation, and ain't a one registerin' him outta normal parameters. Mech's fraggin' facinatin' to watch work.

Torsion, on the other hand, he's got himself a lot of tells. Little twitches, like how his optics are slidin' my way. Hidden behind a visor or not, that little weight shift is a dead giveaway, Mr. Mayhem. "I see," he says, trying to regain some control. "I commend your success... I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name...?" He makes it sound all polite, but it's a trick. Makin' a mech introduce himself makes him feel lower on the chain, but things like that ain't gonna fluster Onslaught. Deliberately manglin' his name, sure - my quarters got enough head-shaped dents to prove how much he don't like bein' called "Onsikins" - but Torsion ain't gonna get to him like that.

"'Commander' will do," Onslaught returns easily, all magnanimous-like. "The post was recently vacated and for the good of the Empire I have filled the position personally." And frag, I kinda believe him, too.

"I see," Torsion rumbles, head swinging from the prone form of Armstice back to Onslaught. Weight's still forward; mech's still not sure what to make of all of this. "And the fugitive?" He asks, lookin' at me again.

Onslaught gestures dismissively to Armsitice. "Apprehended, as you can see." He folds his hands in front of him again.

Torsion's uneasy - he set up Armstice with Epicenter, but it ain't working out like he was expectin' and he ain't sure what to make of Onslaught. Mech plays it so close it's impossible to tell how much he really knows 'bout what's what.

"Do you have any proof?" he asks finally. Heh, it's fraggin' hard not to laugh in his face. It's funny to watch the big bad Mayhem groping in the dark.

"Oh, yes, plenty of it. For instance, the 'proof' provided by your friend Epicenter - and the real proof as well." Onslaught nods in that almost-smirkin' way he gets. "Perhaps you should come inside."

Torsion growls, but steps forward, rotor finally clearin' the door and lettin' it slide shut.

Feel that, Torsion? It's the balance of power dumpin' you off the scale.

"What do you know?" Torsion rumbles threateningly when the door closes. My engine gets a shivery-sorta feelin' - hey, kink.

"Enough," Onslaught says.

Torsion takes a step closer, fists clenchin' and rotor blades bristlin' - aw, he's almost cute. But really, shouldn't never be the one to start the violence, it's bad form. Also, it tells the other guy he's on the right track.

"You'd be surprise," Onslaught says dryly. "See, my friend here -" Hey, stop wavin' at me. I was perfectly happy bein' forgotten over here! "-Stopped to have a visit with our mutual friend, Epicenter."

Torsion twitches at the name. Amateur.

"It would seem Vortex and yourself share certain... past times." Oh, pickin' up my euphemisms, Onsies. Might be hope for you yet. "He tells Epicenter was must eager to provide a great deal of interesting information about you and the former commander." Heh, now that was fun. I admit, he surprised the frag out of me when he sent me in after Epicenter, but apparently he don't take betrayal too well, and there's a hardness to his voice now to show it. "Information which Vortex felt compelled to share with myself and a certain select individuals." Humph. Compelled is fraggin' right.

It's the oldest trick in blackmail, makin' sure the target knows that shootin' you ain't gonna solve his little problem, even if it will. Though, I ain't sure handin' Brawl a data crystal and tellin' him to stick it with his ammo and forget about it qualifies as "certain select individuals." Then again, possibly the most surprisin' thing about the whole thing is where Brawl stows his ammo. What kinda mech sticks his- oh hey, talkin'.

"-Vortex," Ons is sayin' as I tune back in. Frag, I hope that wasn't important, but Torsion's just lookin' considerin' rather than murderous, so I guess I'm okay.

"Armstice was no great asset to the Empire," Torsion temporises. "no one will look closely at the case if he goes down for the killings." He looks back at Onslaught. "And of course you'll take command as a reward for uncovering his guilt."

"Unless you have some reason to doubt the evidence?" Onslaught asks, almost bein' coy about it.

Torsion glares at him for a bit, clearly thinkin' it over before shaking his head. "No reason at all." he shifts, reachin' for the door control.

"And Torsion?" Onslaught calls.

Torsion stops.

"I'll want a copy of that report before you leave base."

Torsion's only reply is to stab at the door controls harder than strictly necessary and stalk out.

I can't hold it in any longer, I snicker. Oh, look at poor widdle Mayhem, gets his itty bitty game ruined.

Oh hey Onslaught, anyone ever tell you that you move fast for a big mech? I back peddle instinctively as Onslaught looms over me until a hand wraps around my rotor hub and hauls me up short.

Frag it, that's not a handle!

"Tomorrow," Onslaught says in a voice too low and rich for issuin' orders, "I want you to handle Armstice's interrogation personally. If Torsion doesn't realize he's still alive, there's no reason for an official entry in the system."

Illegal interrogation? I can dig that, especially if Onslaught's thumb keeps rubbin' right _there._..

"I have plans," Onslaught's voice drops even more, to a husky whisper that gets my rotors quiverin'. "Big plans, and you're a part of them, Vortex."

"What sorta plans?" Okay, that came out more as a squeak than a normal question, but frag, he just won't stop with the touchin'_ right there_, and really I'm just askin' to give myself somethin' to focus on because between his fingers and his voice and that nice rumblin' from his engine I'm about two astroseconds from happy la-la land.

Onslaught just chuckles, and I swear I can feel it all the way to my converters. That ain't helpin' any, Ons! "Later," he promises. His hand tightens on my rotor assembly, and I'm startin' to get the feeling he ain't exactly unaware of what that means in copter-land. "Tonight, let's celebrate," he says, mask brushin' against mine.

You know what, frag focusing. Feeling's a fraggin' sight more fun.


End file.
